Blazing Devils: Vivra la Resistance
by JDoug5189
Summary: Francois Laurent, also known as the Devil of the Black Wings, has become grief stricken and left our world for another. this new world, covered in the power of those forsaken by the Gods, draws him in as he is forced to correct the situation to save all of Halkeginia from the wrath of the almighty. VIVRA LA RESISTANCE! Rated M for violence, gore, and suggestive themes.
1. Prologue

**Blazing Devils: Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Prologue**

**Cincinnati, Ohio**

In one of the city's funeral parlors, a man with effeminate facial features stood over a coffin containing a brown-haired woman in a fancy dress. The man had long, waist-length silver hair tied with a ribbon and shone as if light by a fire while his eyes were shut tightly, trying to stem off the flow of tears. He wore a black coat embroidered with angelic and devilish imagery. Under his coat was a two-tone charcoal grey and white three-piece suit that was custom-tailored for his frame. Under the sleeves of his coat he wore fingerless patent leather gloves while matching knee-high riding boots adorned his feet.

This was Francois Laurent, also known as Semiazas, the Devil of the Black Wings, and as he opened his eyes, they were revealed to be a reddish-gold that seemed to glow in the rather dim lighting of the parlor. He looked down into the coffin, grief etched deep into his eyes as he beheld the body of his deceased wife, Bibiane.

As he stood there, his grief became too much to bear even for his demonic heart, so he brushed her hair with his left hand one last time, kissed her forehead, and walked out, to never see her again.

**Laurent Home, Outside Cincinnati**

Francois sat in an ornately embroidered saddle astride a massive warhorse who's coat was a deep and dark green and was matched with black feathers and mane as he watched the coffin containing Bibiane's body be lowered into the ground, a trio of women by his side. The first was a silver-haired woman wearing a business suit with stiletto heels, glasses, and eyeshadow to give her a very alluring yet intelligent appearance while the other two wore a blouse with a skirt, the larger of the two women wearing knee-high riding boots while the other wore heels. The one in boots had dark brown hair and green eyes while the other had blond hair and blue eyes. The Silver-haired woman was an arch succubus named Kitty, the woman in boots was the half-giantess Sinmara, while the blond was an angel named Angelina.

After the priest finished his sermon, Francois very lightly nudged the massive horse forward before dismounting, depositing a handful of dirt on Bibiane's coffin and mounting back up, his reddish-gold eyes now slitted as the grief kept hitting harder and harder. After everything was done, he rode up to a nearby hill and looked over the land, at the two-story cabin he and Bibiane had lived in, raised their four children, and turned into a very successful bed and breakfast, at the stables that had been used as his warhorse's home for the last 5 decades, the garden that they had grown all of their fruits and vegetables in, and finally the cellar that served as Francois' personal armoury, holding every weapon he'd ever purchased or won inside of his 2 and a half century long life.

He carried different sets of them on him depending on what kind of mission he might face. He was even carrying one of those sets on him now, a set designed for putting up the maximum amount of hot lead in a short period.

Looking at the garden, he remembered one of the times he and Bibiane had fought with gophers and moles, the rascally rodents turning the garden into an impromptu game of whack-a-mole that had left Francois' coughing smoke with his normally calm personality shattered and Bibiane laughing up a storm. Francois had been forced to send a lightning bolt through the mole-hills in an effort to kill the rodents, only for the blast to strangely zap him too after following the tunnels. He'd shut her up by leaning over and crushing his lips onto hers, causing a make out session that had their eldest son, Royce, coughing and sputtering after he caught them.

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he pulled back on the reins, the massive horse neighing loudly before galloping away, throwing up clods of grass and dirt.

The people in attendance at the funeral looked up when they heard the neigh, watching as the widowed husband rode away and the sky, filled with heavy clouds, released it's burden and covered the land in rain, as if the heavens themselves shared the devil's grief.

Francois continued to ride, the rain strangely soothing his soul as he flared his mana, opening up a portal to an unknown location. His expression became cold and uncaring as he rode through, the portal vanishing almost as soon as the giant horse's tail went through.

**Meanwhile, on the floating Island of Albion**

After the defeat of the royal family, the political situation of the nation of Albion could be described as Chaos, put simply. Nobles were turning against each other, not one army was truly united, and the troops were in turmoil. Reconquista, a group of ambitious nobles that had led the anti-royalists, in a mad attempt to retain their power and influence, had oppressed and persecuted anyone who was even suspected of plotting against them. Those who's families were suspected of treason were often taken to labor camps as hostages in order to spread fear and paranoia amongst the common people. In one of the western provinces a village had all of it's women and children taken away after a chieftain was falsely accused of assisting the royalists during the rebellion. Needless to say, the chieftain suffered an even worse punishment. The nobles publicly executed the poor man and displayed his corpse as an example to all of those who dare question Reconquista's regime. With fear, paranoia, and hatred for the government running high, the situation in Albion was a powder keg laced with nitroglycerin just waiting for a good hard shock.

At the same moment, an inhabitant of the aforementioned village was in the woods hunting for deer in preparation for the coming winter. He had already sighted his prey and drew his smoothbore rifle up to his cheek, narrowing his sights on the unsuspecting buck. He exhaled slowly and fired. A shot rang out and echoed across the valley as the lead ball tore through the buck's neck, killing it almost instantly. He pumped a fist into the air, exhilarated by his own success. He went to retrieve his prize when, suddenly, a ghostly neigh echoed through the woods.

Jerking his head to see where it had come from, he saw a giant black horse come galloping out of the early morning fog, with a silver-haired man riding it. The man wore a strange coat that seemed to flutter behind him as the horse suddenly reared and gave a neigh. The man riding the horse had a look on his face that said he didn't care about anyone or anything, though the man with the rifle could see pain in those reddish-gold eyes.

"I am Francois Laurent, and you?" the horseman asked as he introduced himself, the hunter noticing the apathetic tone the man used, which made a chill go up and down his spine.

"Dubois, Brice Dubois." the hunter, Brice, replied.


	2. Chapter 1

**Blazing Devils: Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 1**

**Muret Village**

Nighttime had come and Francois kept himself busy by gazing out of a second-story window at the twin moons, one green and the other red. After meeting Brice, he'd helped the young human get his catch home and then settled himself in by helping out the other townspeople, all the while noticing the air of malice in the air. Something was wrong with this world and he could feel it deep in his demonic bones; so many souls damned to Hell, it was maddening even to him, a creature BORN in Hell, to see so many people who'd unknowingly signed their ticket for eternal torment by worshiping a false idol.

Francois, despite being a devil, was not automatically damned to Hell, having turned his back on the place of his birth long ago and choosing for himself to protect and maintain the balance of good and evil, of darkness and light.

His status was shown by the silver crucifix he wore dangling from his neck by a set of rosary beads that had holy water inside them. The divine object would have obliterated him on contact if he were working for the infernal, and due to his neutral stance, he was neither divine nor infernal, he stood comfortably between the two, a position he enjoyed. Gazing at the two moons, he saw very little in the powers of light in this world, the infernal had taken over almost completely and the people now worshiped a false god, a human male named Brimir who's only claim to fame was founding a system of magic, his descendants now ruling all but two of the continent's five nations.

Francois mentally shook his head at the stupidity of this version of man as he turned away from the window and took his boots, coat, jacket, and waistcoat off before laying on the bed, his arms over his head with his hands under his head. He was asleep within moments.

Francois had been asleep for no more than an hour when angry yelling in the courtyard woke him up, and smelling the air he instantly caught the scent of the evil contained within the new arrivals. Wasting no time he had his boots back on and laced and the rest of his clothes back on as he went over to the shadows by the door, vanishing in moments with his eyes glowing in the darkness for a few moments more as hard stomps could be heard downstairs following gunshots.

The door swung open with a soldier in blue screaming as he fired shots into the bed. The soldier then looked at the bed in confusion, a dim-witted "huh?" escaping his lips as he stared at the bullet-riddled bed. The man never knew what happened as a huge broadsword burst from his chest, the forked tip, one longer than the other, dripping blood and revealing the tormented goat skulls running down the center of the elegantly curving blade as Francois slowly revealed himself to the dying man, the soldier's face revealing his terror as he gazed into Francois' slitted eyes as they blazed back at him like miniature suns.

Any scream the soldier could have released was stopped as that demonic broadsword ripped up, gouging out a huge tract of the left side of his chest and causing his shoulder to flop as he went down to his knees and then dropped face down, his injury cauterized by the flames dancing across the sword.

Meanwhile, the soldiers outside had been gathering the villagers into the center of the courtyard. Some were thrown, face first into the hard stone streets of the village square, others had to be dragged and those foolish enough to resist were killed without mercy. At the head of them was Sir Marius, the commander of the nearby garrison and one of Albion's Triangle mages. His familiar, a large red fire dragon, loomed dangerously over anyone who would dare defy his master. Out of the group of huddled villagers, an elderly man stepped out and addressed the commander.

"I don't understand, Sir Marius, what have we done to deserve this brutish treatment?"

The haughty noble took one glance at the frail elder and sneered. "Don't play innocent commoner. One of your villagers has been sheltering a rebel from the forest. That's a crime punishable by death."

"That's impossible," the elder replied. "There are no rebels in the forest. At this time of the year Murat forest is inhospitable to anyone."

"More lies! It seems you peasants have yet to learn the meaning of respect. Bring me the rebel or I will kill one man every minute until you do."

"Shut up!" several heads turned towards the source of the voice as Brice had stepped out of the group. Gone were the friendly eyes Francois and the villagers had seen so often before. Instead, they were replaced by eyes filled to the brim with a burning rage. "First you take away our women and children, and then you tax us so we don't have enough wheat for the winter. Now you're saying it's a crime to give a man a home! You're persecuting us for no reason!"

"Indeed." agreed the noble, "you have done no wrong, if anyone is to blame, then blame your father Brice, the former chieftain, for it was he who had the nerve to speak out against the crown and bring punishment upon you and your village."

"What?!"

"Anyways." continued Marius, "by the order of the crown, beloved and merciful to all, I have received orders to take whatever actions necessary to ensure peace within this province. And I think I'll start by killing everyone in this village to deter others from committing such heinous crimes ever again. KILL THEM!"

It was at that exact moment that a flying object hit Marius' dragon familiar in the snout. The object was revealed to be the brutally cut open body of a soldier clad in blue, his left shoulder and arm barely attached to his body through a part of his chest and his stomach.

"WHO DID THAT!" the enraged noble screamed.

One of the soldiers standing nearby went over to examine the body and his face turned green just before an incredibly loud, echoing report boomed across the village, the soldier being blown completely off his feet and back several feet to land spread eagle with a giant hole in his back.

Marius was hardly able to think as a second booming report went off and his dragon lost an eye and the back of it's head, blood, bone, and brain matter flying out to stain the ground. The patrol never even had a chance to register the fact that they were under attack before Francois stepped out of the shadows, putting several rounds from his Beretta 92s into the men, an AW50 and two giant broadswords on his back. With an efficient quickness one would expect of a well-trained and experienced soldier, Francois emptied his magazines before the enemy even had a chance to load their muskets. As the last soldier fell, he turned to Marius only to receive a fireball to the chest.

Marius went to gloat about killing his foe only to look on in fear as Francois stood there unharmed, a fireball released by a triangle-class mage completely ineffective against him. It was in that moment, staring into those hellishly slitted reddish-gold eyes, that Sir Marius knew he was, for the lack of a better word, fucked. Despite all of his battlefield experience, Marius had always fought and won on his terms, with his opponent at a distance from where he could fire his spells with impunity knowing that his enemy could be killed by them. However, against an enemy that was _protected_ against his magic like Francois, he never stood a chance. Francois fired two rounds, blowing Marius' knee caps out and sending him crashing to the ground moaning in pain as two more shots were fired, shattering his wrists.

Walking over to the in-shock noble as he bled and cried, Francois holstered his pistols and pulled one of his swords, the one with goat skulls on it, out then he stabbed the sword down, right through Marius' back, the man giving out a loud scream before he fell back down, dead, as Francois continued to move, ripping the now glowing blade free before slinging the blood off. Reaching the villagers, he helped Brice to his feet.

"What is the meaning of this?" Francois asked.

Grimly, Brice began to describe the events, of the Reconquista rebellion and murder of the Royal family. He then explained the current status of Albion, of the hated nobles who had already caused so much misery and led by a former priest, Cromwell, from their fortress in Londinium doing everything they could to keep their hold on power, even executing Brice's father and taking the women and children of their village.

Upon hearing Brice's explanation, Francois understood instantly why the villagers seemed so terrified. He'd seen those expressions on civilians suffering from attacks by the supernatural, demons in particular, as well as on the faces of liberated refugees in third world countries. Those refugees didn't rejoice in their new found freedom and security, they instead feared the imminent retaliation of their despotic rulers. It would take a strong hand or a charismatic voice to shock them into action.

"Brice, the enemy will return."

"I don't see how," Brice began "you killed them all."

"No, Brice, this is just a mere patrol sent on a mission of terror. Once their headquarters realizes that the patrol hasn't returned, they'll send a larger force to finish the job."

Brice fell silent for a moment as he realized the implications of what Francois told him, even through that apathetic and uncaring vocal tone. "We have to do something."

Francois nodded. "We must fight back of course. But the question is, can you stomach fighting alongside a devil like me, and will they do the same?" Francois directing his gaze at the huddled villagers.

"How can you call yourself a devil when you are willing to help us against Reconquista? Can you convince them to fight?"

"It may take a wicked tongue, but it can be done."

Well then, try! Please, you need to help us!"

Francois turned around, unsurprised to find himself with a rapt audience. After all, he and Brice were not the softest of conversationalists.

"People of Murat." he began. "Allow me to ask of you a question. Aren't you ashamed to have been degraded like this? Would your children be proud to see you cower like dogs? Are you going to just sit idly by in this sorry state while your wives and daughters are in danger of being violated by the scum of humanity? Will you allow them to suffer for your cowardice, or are you going rise up like the phoenix from the ashes and leave behind a legacy your descendants can be proud of? Even if you should perish at least you can rest peacefully knowing that you died fighting the good fight, that you protected your loved ones. Recover your pride, recover your families, and return to being true men of Albion!"

As Francois looked at his audience after firing a pillar of flames into the air from his broadsword that used the entirety of Sir Marcus' mana and had exploded into a giant ball of fire with a concussion wave to match, he no longer saw fear in their eyes. Instead he saw rage and determination. It seemed that the revolution has begun.


	3. Chapter 2

**Blazing Devils: Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 2**

**Muret Village**

Francois looked apathetically at the small group of villagers he currently had for an "Army" and said to himself "This is Valley Forge all over again."

With about 120 men armed mostly with pitchforks, woodcutting axes, a handful of hunting rifles, and a few of the pistols Francois had brought with him, he knew his small "army" was no more than a local militia than anything else. Francois' thrill for combat was flamed higher when one of the villagers told him that the local garrison was made up of 450 heavily armoured and elite mage knights. For Francois, on the other hand, most of his men were simple farmers who's closest combat experience was running a fox out of their chicken coops.

To make matters worse, Francois knew guerrilla warfare was out of the question due to the lack of supplies and the coming season. With Winter setting in, Francois knew that the bitter cold and starvation would do more damage than any pitched battle could. Despite their odds, Francois was confident he could turn this band of misfits into a formidable fighting force, strength and skill of arm could make all the difference.

The very morning after the battle, Francois wasted no time in preparing his men for battle. He ordered the villagers to strip the dead soldiers for their swords and armour while Francois skinned, gutted, and cleaned the dead dragon, doing what he could to preserve the meat and then curing the hide so it could be used to make leather. With roughly 30 sets of armour total, he picked the most fit men in the village and spent the morning teaching them swordsmanship. Brice, by default, had become Francois' second in command in all but name. He led 15 men with hunting rifles, Brice carrying Francois' AW50, into the forest to teach them marksmanship.

Francois was suitably impressed when Brice shot a small tin can from 300 yards off. With the AW50, Francois expected Brice to begin picking off targets from much greater distances and transform into the first true special forces sniper in Albion's history. The others were also busy, gathering the necessary supplies or creating makeshift weapons such as the Molotov cocktail, which was a deadly and effective weapon despite it's simplicity.

Francois had changed his clothing. He now wore an armoured version of his longcoat with armour on the shoulders and forearms, under it was a cuirass with white pants and black field boots while his gloves remained the same. He wore a custom-forged combat harness for his arsenal of weapons, 3 holsters on the back for his swords and a rifle and a series of holsters both under his arms and along his thighs and the back of his waist for his pistols along with holsters built into his coat. All of his clothes and even his cuirass now had an inner lining of Kevlar to further protect him from enemy attack.

As Francois watched his men train with their respective weapons, he knew that, in time, his men would gain proficiency and be more of a match for any armed forces organization in the world. However, he knew he had neither the time nor the equipment to turn his small band of misfits into an effective fighting force. With each passing hour, the lord of the local garrison would grow suspicious as to why Sir Marius' patrol never returned and would send out an even larger party to hunt down those who dared raise a hand against the Reconquista aligned forces.

With perhaps two or three days until the imminent battle, Francois knew that they needed more men, though his true form could wipe out entire armies singlehandedly in seconds if he had to. They would need allies in order to keep casualties to an agreeable minimum, what good is freeing the country if everyone is dead, so he brought the matter up to Brice after giving the men a lunch break.

Brice took a moment to ponder the predicament thoughtfully and after several moments said "Well, there's always Cahors."

"Cahors?"

"Cahors Village," Brice began, "is a neighboring sister village to Muret. They're only about twenty miles away and we're practically like family."

"Is that so?" Francois asked coldly.

Brice nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, in fact the village chief is my cousin and, trust me, no one wants to rebel against Reconquista more than he does. Though," he added. "I have to warn you, one of his townspeople, Brynjar Dahl, is a sadistic son of a bitch and nobody knows where he came from. The guy is damn big and loves to hurt things when it comes to Reconquista."

"I see" Francois began. "Why do we not pay this cousin of yours a visit and see if we can not get this Brynjar to join us as well."

As it turned out, convincing Cahors to join the revolution was a lot easier than Francois or Brice could have anticipated. While Brice's cousin was many things and Brynjar was sadistic as hell, neither was a fool. When Francois and Brice followed by their small force of rebels brought news that an army of 450 mages was in the process of marching on Muret, they knew that the contingent of so-called knights would not hesitate to discriminate between the rebels and their village. Furthermore, there wasn't a single villager in Cahors who hadn't been affected negatively by Reconquista's regime. Harsh taxes left many peasants close to starvation and on the streets. Like the rebels of Muret, the villagers of Cahors had had enough of Reconquista's despotic rule. So it wasn't surprising when almost all of the healthy males of Cahors, more than 150 villagers combined, volunteered to join Francois' revolution. However, despite their obvious enthusiasm, none of their spirits could even compare to the heated fervor of Brynjar Dahl.

Brynjar is a massive specimen of a man, towering over everyone else in the room and had close-cropped, almost buzzed dark brown hair and blue/green eyes. He appeared to barely possess a neck due to the sheer size of his upper back muscle while his forearms were a little smaller than other men's necks. He wore ripped blue jeans that had a chain for a belt with a form-fitting black and red bodysuit on his otherwise bare upper body alongside boots and fingerless gloves.

"Let's rock 'n' roll!" he yelled when he heard about Francois and Brice's situation. "I've been here wasting my time with mine carts, give me a place in your forces and I'll show you some blood." he reached under the table and, to Francois' surprise, he seemingly pulled an RPG-29 from thin air and cradled it in a relaxed position. "Give me something to kill."

All in all, Francois had to admit that, to the average man from his world, watching a 7 foot tall walking mountain of a man expertly cradle a rocket-propelled-grenade would be pretty damn intimidating. Brynjar was built as if he'd pushed those carts up and down hills by himself for years and handled that RPG as if he'd been a professional soldier at some point. Francois was a little alarmed at Brynjar's zeal as the chief stood nearby. "You may want to wait a short time and prepare."  
"Ah, and here I mistook you for a young man, with all of the reckless insanity of youth." the chief commented.

"This war is something we cannot win without planning and preparation."

The chief smiled as Brynjar's lips were pulled back in a malice filled smirk at Francois' rebuke. "Right you are. I'm not as mad as Brynjar here seems to be. After I started hearing rumors about your little revolution I sent scouts to watch the provincial garrison."

At this Francois inwardly smiled. The chief was turning out to be a better ally than he could have hoped for. Suddenly, as if on cue, a pigeon carrier dropped into the room. The chief untied the small letter from the pigeon's leg and began reading the contents intently. Francois had already guessed the nature of the message. "The garrison is moving out."

The chief nodded as Brynjar smiled like a kid in a candy store. "The scout saw a column of knights leave the castle about 2 days ride to the south."

"How many?"

"He says no more than 450, mostly cavalry and mage knights."

"Excellent." Francois said as his eyes became slits and began to glow. "Most excellent."

The group heard the sound of wagons pulling up outside and a woman's voice calling "My Lord, Lord Laurent!"

The four went outside to see a woman Francois recognized, only now she was donned in Lamellar armour and her boots were replaced with a fur-lined pair that had armor over her shins while a battle axe sat beside her on the lead wagon. She led a series of wagons, wagons that Francois knew instantly held his entire arsenal of weapons, from 1770s era muskets all the way to 21st century assault rifles and anti-material rifles, complete with tens of thousands of rounds of ammunition alongside grenades of various types.

Looking over at his three companions, Francois smiled inwardly as they gaped like a trio of fish and Brynjar had a look of attraction on his face as he gazed at the woman leading the wagons.

"Gentleman." Francois began, "Say hello to Sinmara, my personal servant, dear friend, and now Quartermaster. I however, am the Devil of the Black Wings." he finished before turning to Sinmara and saying "I thank you for coming, Sinmara. I trust the journey wasn't too difficult?"

"Not at all, My Lord. Your personal armoury is now at yours' and your army's disposal." Sinmara replied, her voice such a melodic tone that Brynjar's jaw snapped shut, though the look never left his eyes.

Brynjar remained like a statue with his RPG in his hands as Sinmara seemed to get a kind yet understanding look on her face centered on Brynjar as she hopped down and went over to the second wagon. She pulled the tarp back and opening one of the cases, pulling out an identical RPG to the one in Brynjar's hands as well as a set of fragmentation grenades. Holding the RPG and grenades in a non-combative stance, she walked over to the giant of a man and seeing her that close snapped him out of it, allowing her to hand him the second grenade launcher, his face turning a light pink hue as he held both launchers akimbo with their barrels pointed towards the ground and Sinmara clipping the grenades to his right hip via a belt designed for them.

Brynjar gulped before saying saying "Thu-thank you, Lady Sinmara", receiving a kind smile and a light-hearted giggle from the woman in question, making his face turn even redder before he finally calmed down and looked at the horizon with a fire blazing in his eyes.


	4. Chapter 3

**Blazing Devils: Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 3**

**Muret Village outskirts, Plains**

The road was wide and flat as the cavalry contingent made it's way across the grasslands. At the head of the column rode the commander of the force, Ethan Bouchard, as he reread his orders for confirmation. His orders had been simple; Hunt down the rebellious forces that had attacked Sir Marius' patrol and crush any signs of insurrection within the province. Bouchard had arrived at the Garrison outpost only 3 days ago and it was sheer luck that he'd been made Garrison Commander after the recent death of his predecessor, Sir Marius.

Bouchard jumped at the chance to prove himself as a military commander in order to advance himself along the political hierarchy of Albion. Of course, Bouchard never expected himself to remain in the military for more than a few months following the end of the ongoing war with Tristain. After all, Bouchard was a noble and nobles were expected to govern provinces and work in the royal court. But a few easy victories under the belt would help him gain influence and power among his scheming compatriots. And an easy victory it would be, after all the enemy Bouchard faced was nothing more than a rabble of malcontent peasants. Lacking numbers, organization, or any type of tactical knowledge, he almost felt sorry for those misguided fools. Almost.

As soon as his scouts reported that the cavalry contingent had entered Muret territory, Francois began leading those who had received the enemy weapons and armour, exactly 30 men in total, towards the direction his scouts had pointed out for him. The battle had begun.

It was noon when Bouchard spotted a small contingent of men across the hills and in an entry to the canyons of the ridge. At first the rebel forces were nothing more than a stain on the horizon, but as Bouchard called his squadron to a trot, he could make out roughly 30 men wearing stolen armour. The standard color for the Albion infantry had always been black and gray since Cromwell's reign began. However, these rebels had painted their armour royal blue and gold to distinguish themselves. As Bouchard's force of 450 grew near, nervousness and fear rippled through the small force. Bouchard saw that as a chance to draw first blood and demoralize the rest of the rebel forces, he just needed to say one word.

"Charge!"

The Cavalry column broke out from a trot to a gallop in perfect formation towards the rebels. At this distance Bouchard could make out the rebel leader. He was surprised to see an effeminately beautiful man with long silver hair and wearing a black coat while wielding a massive broadsword encouraging his subordinates to stand their ground. Bouchard knew that it was futile, however, and he could almost smell the blood already. But that was when things started to go horribly wrong for Ethan Bouchard. The front ranks of the column crashed into the ground as both men and horses alike began screaming in pain. Instantly the disciplined formation of the knight squadron disintegrated as the rear ranks collided with their comrades and their horses tumbling and rolling headlong into one another. Soon the column was a milling mass of plunging horses and men.

"What's going on?" shrieked Bouchard. "What's happening?" one of Bouchard's men examined the ground just before the ground itself gave way, plunging him into a pit to be impaled on the end of sharpened punji sticks. One of the others picked up a small object from the earth as well as watched his footing.

"Caltrops and Trous de loup." the man said grimly. Made up of a pair of sharp nails welded together to created a star-shaped weapon, caltrops had been used for centuries to slow down men and beast alike on the battlefield, the same for Trous de loup, which were a set of pits dug into the ground with sharpened punji sticks made of wood or bamboo hammered into the bottom. They were not weapons that Bouchard expected to rebels to use. How dare those worthless peasants use such a cowardly tactic against him? Bouchard knew errors like this could finish his career if he wasn't careful. He swore he'd catch the leader he had already seen, Bouchard's mind already thinking of ways to exact his revenge with extreme prejudice.

In total Bouchard lost about 75 men to the rebels' wicked traps, but still, he reasoned that a glorious victory worked wonders on erasing memories of minor mistakes. Using wind magic to blow the caltrops away from their path and earth magic to fill in the trous de loup, the column continued their assault on the rebels at an even quicker pace to catch up on lost time. The lost time had been used by the rebels to pull back into the ravine, Bouchard pursuing without hesitation. As he rounded the corner of the narrow ravine, he saw the rebels trapped in a dead end and rejoiced. Truly he was loved by the Founder Brimir as this rebel scum had practically been delivered upon him.

But something was wrong. The men who stood before him now were not acting like men about to die. Instead the leader of the men held an intense and deadly reddish-gold glare of complete apathy before raising his unoccupied left hand and snapping his fingers, the loud 'snap' echoing across the ravine and onto the ridge above, the sound of a sear notch 'clicking' prompting Bouchard to look up, and his stomach dropped. Lining the steep ravine, stood about a hundred men all armed with a variety of strange firearms, grenades, and even homemade explosives.

Bouchard reared his horse around only to have his stomach drop further as he saw a wall of bristling spears blocking the ravine's only exit. During the three days before, Francois had pressed a store of hunting spears into service in order to teach his men spearmanship as well. Though outdated by Francois' time, Francois knew a simple spear wall was one of the most effective formations against cavalry. While the first rank held pikes at a 45 degree angle in a static defense position, ready to draw swords if need be, the second rank held their pikes horizontally for delivering thrusts. Now, thanks to them, the small contingent of cavalry had become trapped.

Everything had gone exactly as Francois had planned. Led by the mayor of Cahors, the spear wall had done it's job and sealed the fate of the cavalry contingent. Now, one word echoed throughout the ravine, condemning Bouchard and his men to their deaths.

"Attack!"

From the heights above, Brice and his men directed their rifle fire with precision, aiming at any officer they could see. Anti-personnel rifle rounds rained down upon Bouchard and his men, killing many. Molotov cocktails were thrown into the dense concentration of knights and horses, spreading fire and death. Horses and men alike screamed in agony and fell by the dozens even before Brynjar rose up and screamed out into the ravine "SHOW ME SOME BLOOD!" before firing both RPGs. Tightly packed together in the narrow ravine, not only did the horsemen make an impossible target to miss, but they also prevented themselves from fighting back in an effective manner. Francois knew from first hand experience that all heavy weapons required space in order to operate effectively, this proved true whether the weapon was a catapult, artillery piece, or even a missile. Packed so densely together, some of the mage knights didn't have enough space to raise their wands above their heads. Those that did often tried to cast spells of significant power, doing more damage to their comrades than the enemy. Soon the contingent descended into chaos.

Sensing that the time had come, Francois gave one last order to the men behind him as he raised his broadsword, Retribution, into the air and ripped it down.

"Charge!"

30 voices answered the call with raw-throated battle cries and charged at the larger force of cavalry. Francois' giant warhorse broke into a gallop as the men broke into a run down the ravine and slammed into the enemy horses like a fist, sending the enemy reeling in shock and terror. Slashing in all directions, Francois soon confronted two mounted horsemen. He ducked under a lance thrust and the last thing the first rider saw was a screaming human skull as the broadsword's pommel smacked into his face with bone-shattering force, the concussion from the impact knocking him out as he slid from his horse. Francois parried a sword stroke from the second one and ripped the sword from the man's grasp before drawing his Beretta 92 and blasting the man in the gut a few times, the rider's face twisting into a mask of intense pain before he slid from the back of his horse. Beside him, Francois' men were fighting with almost suicidal courage against their mounted opponents, seeing the brutal ferocity that their commander fought for them emboldening them and raising their morale higher.

Francois turned and saw Bouchard staring at him, the fighting stopping as the two leaders of men faced each other. Francois' broadsword was glowing once again as flames danced across it's blade with a rumbling growl.

Ethan Bouchard knew he had lost the minute he led his men into the trap. He could no longer return to the Albion court with defeat and shame upon his head. Victory or defeat no longer mattered to him anymore. All he cared about was killing the man who caused him so much misery.

The two men charged, their swords ready to swing. As soon as they met, a loud 'clang' sounded off as a light flashed. When the flash finally disappeared and the watching warriors could see again, they saw the rebel leader on one side and Bouchard on the other with their backs to the other and their swords raised from a strike. The silence was shattered in time with Bouchard's sword as the blade 'clinked' and broke in two a few seconds before Bouchard slipped from his saddle and fell to the ground, a slash going from his left hip to his right shoulder.

Francois lowered his sword and looked to the ridges. He could see Brice and Brynjar reloading their weapons for another round. Their eyes met and he gave the two men a nod before accessing the situation. One of the knights looked at him, shook from the intensity of his gaze, drove his sword tip into the ground and knelt down pleading. Francois studied the field and more of the surviving knights followed that example and surrendered. The devil in human form called to halt his men and order eventually took hold. As they looked at the small band of survivors kneeling on the ground, the rebels stiffened with pride with the knowledge that they had beaten a far larger force than their own. An eerie silence filled the battlefield just before the warhorse reared as Francois rose his sword and called out "Vivra le Albion, Vivra le Résistance!". his men began yelling into the air "HUUUUUOOO! HUUOOOO! HUUOOOO!" the call becoming a cacophony that drowned out all other sound.


	5. Chapter 4

**Blazing Devils: Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 4**

**Provincial Garrison**

The guards of the Provincial Garrison were well-protected against the midnight cold. Fires were lit in braziers all along the stone crests and the sentries gathered around them. Most of the sentries were made up of new recruits and they showed their youth through wisecracks and the occasional sip of prohibited booze. Against the gatehouse of the silent fortress, one of the guards looked up and peered into the darkness.

"Thought I heard horses out there." he commented.

Two more left the warmth of their brazier to stand by him. They squinted across the horizon and, sure enough, small dark shadows were galloping at full pace towards the silent fortress.

"Probably ours." one of them responded.

"Maybe we should fetch the lord?"

The question made the three soldiers pause. Lord Guillory specifically ordered the garrison never to rouse him from his sleep unless it was an emergency. As the small group of riders were most likely routine report messengers, neither of the guards saw any need to rouse the irritable lord from his beauty sleep.

"Approaching the gate!" a voice shouted below them just as a loud, haunting, and echoing whinny pierced the quiet veil of the night.

"What's the password?" one of the sentries shouted back with fear in his tone.

"Password? What fucking password?!" replied the voice.

"Your commander should've given you the password before your departure!"

Commander? Colonel Bouchard is DEAD!"

"What?"

"We were ambushed by those damned peasants. We were the only ones who managed to make it out alive and now those rebels are hot on our heels and led by a damned demon. Open the gate!" came the reply just as a second ghostly whinny cut through the air like a knife.

"Oh shit!" one of the sentries cracked. If there was any time to call an emergency, this was it. "Wait there, one of us will get the Lord for confirmation."

"Confirmation!" the voice screamed. "Those bastards are right behind – By Brimir there they are!"

all three sentries looked up to see about 150 rebels across the horizon running towards the castle screaming and shouting shrill battle cries while a figure in black with glowing reddish-gold pinpricks for eyes and a giant broadsword riding a massive warhorse led them. The very sight drove terror deep into the heart of the sentries.

"Open up, open up for Brimir's sake! Open up!" the voice screamed.

"Open the gate." one the sentries said. The other two looked up at him with worried expressions showing.

"Shouldn't we wait for–"

"Those are nobles down there! If we let them die you be sure as hell their families are gonna nail our balls and our family members privates into the ground for letting them die!"

The last argument seemed to be the clincher and the heavy locking bars were heaved away and the gate opened, allowing the riders inside. By now, the attacking rebels had seen the door close, thus letting their prey get away, stopping outside of missile range from the castle walls.

"We're closed. Come back in the morning!" an intoxicated sentry called out as he and his companions stifled laughter.

The leader of the rebels, the tall being with reddish-gold eyes turned to a man at his side and said "Brice. You once asked me how I can call myself a devil, well now I am going to prove to you why I call myself the Devil of the Black Wings." then he got down from his horse and walked in front of the massive beast.

All activity stopped in an instant as a massive weight slammed down on top of everyone there, people began struggling to breath as they felt a massive intent of sheer malevolence, power, and death settle over the fortress and the surrounds for miles. The intent was centered with the black-clad figure standing in the field, and everyone there were startled when six wings, covered in black feathers, suddenly erupted from his back and opened wide just before white-hot flames began streaming up around him, lighting up his slitted reddish-gold eyes in an infernal glow as they blazed like miniature suns.

The streaming flames exploded to further life and shot into the air to create a pillar as wide as Francois' wings. Those closest to him began hearing loud, clanging footsteps and the rattle of chains as the pillar gained streamers that spun around it going faster and faster, the intent growing more and more powerful as men began to choke and drop to their knees in sheer primal terror, the sound of flapping wings joined that of the clanging and rattling. The flaming pillar eventually exploded outwards as a nova, blowing everyone nearby off their feet and prompting the giant warhorse to suddenly blaze into flame and transform into a Hell Stallion.

Where the rebel leader once stood there was now a giant demon who took one step back, the ground under that hoof catching alight as flames circled his hooves. The witnesses to this transformation looked up, to the greaves the demon wore, an unarmoured tail whipped around with barbed spikes on the tip. Then the cuirass that protected his upper body, hips, and thighs and the helm that protected his cheeks, forehead and the top and back of his head and the back of his neck. Chains hanging from the chest plate to the shoulder armour on the front and back made rattling noises with each move he made as Heavenly and Hellish imagery was engraved across the armor plates in equal measure.

An angel and a demon with their swords locked in combat with each other was engraved on the armor protecting his forehead. His crucifix hung from his neck, the silver contrasting beautifully with the ebon black of his armor. His thighs and upper arms appeared to be covered in black, leathery skin where it showed under his armor.

Long, straight horns jutted from his head at a 90 degree angle with additional spikes on his jaw, chin, and elbows, his feathery black wings and silvery-white hair were unchanged while his eyes glowed like miniature suns with slits. His exposed skin was red as they saw not one, but TWO of the giant swords on his back, the first was the one with goat skulls, but the other, it had tortured human faces on it in the place of goats. They could see lightning sparking across his form with the shimmering of heat as he arched his back with his hands tensed opened and his arms pointed out, he gave one deep growl of a roar and leaned forward, slamming his left fist into his right palm as flames issued forth from his mouth with every breath he took.

"_**Brice, you see me as I truly am. Semiazas, the Devil of the Black Wings.**_" came a voice so deep and dark that it was otherworldly inhuman as Semiazas spoke, his armor barely disguising the incredibly strong musculature beneath.

The sentries on the walls were shaking in stark terror and even the drunk guards had shit themselves at the sight of a demon, a true, honest to Brimir demon. The creature turned to them and their terror became so great when they gazed into his eyes that they all saw visions of their deaths, each one getting more and more gruesome until it became too much to bear. The sentries all fell dead just as the men they let in were revealed to be Brynjar and 75 rebels dressed in knightly armour.

Entering the fort a few minutes later, Semiazas had just turned to go inside when a door opened and a frightened woman with long black hair, two fang-like marks under her violet eyes, and wearing a nightgown ran out, only to come up short as she beheld his terrifying form, though one look at his face and the feel of his power and her expression turned from fear to attraction.

"What, are you?" she asked and his expression turned to his typical apathy as he said "_**I am the Devil of the Black Wings, Semiazas, and you?**_" then grabbed her hand and kissed the back of it, doing a mind read on the woman as he held her hand. He found that her name was Sheffield and she was the Void familiar of the King of Gallia, Joseph. Looking through her memories he noticed that she served Joseph out of the desire to be loved by him. It seemed like Joseph had NO emotions whatsoever, a literal void where his heart and emotions should be, fitting as his magical alignment was Void, the _mythical_ fifth element.

"Sheffield, I work as Cromwell's secretary." the woman said in a daze, the sheer power rolling off of this creature in waves and the effeminately beautiful visage his face held had her caught, hook, line, and sinker. Even the fact that she was faced with a Devil had no effect on killing what she felt. Strangely, she felt a heat in her core as she struggled to keep from rubbing her thighs together in ecstasy. That heat intensified and doubled a few seconds later when Semiazas picked her up bridal style, a quick cry of surprise coming from her lips as she put her hands on his armour, feeling the powerful muscle beneath it as he moved, causing her to become dizzy with want before finally passing out from it.

After Semiazas had deposited Sheffield in her chambers, his steps making loud clangs as well as leaving rings of fire in his wake, both he and Brice stood outside Lord Guillory's bedchambers, the unsuspecting lord still asleep despite the loud, thunderous clangs Semiazas made with each step. Semiazas stared down at Brice.

"_**Is this what you desire?**_"

"Yes, I have to do this." Brice began. "It feels like the only way I can move on."

"_**Very well, make him suffer.**_" he said, stomping away and leaving his rings of fire hoof steps, his destination being Sheffield's bedchambers.

Brice kicked the door open and rushed in, knowing exactly where his target would be. Lord Guillory sat up from his bed and began screaming at the intruder even as Brice yelled "Shut up!", silencing the man who had ordered the execution of his father.

By early morning, the rebels had taken the castle and the kidnapped families and hostages were released from the castle prisons. As the villagers of Muret reunited with their long lost families, Semiazas couldn't help but smile in a fatherly manner at the tears of joy his men had shed. It also tore at his heart, however, every time families looked desperately among the crowd for their loved ones only to never find them, reopening the wound in his heart from Bibiane's death, the rebels were shocked to their cores to see the great devil drop to his knees with a ground-shaking impact while shedding tears of blood for theirs and his own loss, his wings and tail drooping down to rest on the ground.

By mid-morning, a well at the central courtyard had become the nexus for the revolutionaries as the ravenous warriors consumed the castle supplies. Semiazas himself, now transformed back into his human form with Sheffield holding his arm, the woman now wearing a black dress that went down to her knees with slits in the sides and mid-thigh high boots and arm sleeves while the top of her chest was covered in a light purple see-through material, walked from the inner keep to the castle well. The rebels fell silent at Francois' step and one filled the leather bucket and handed it to their commander. As Francois drank at last, he gave the group a smile filled with a father's pride, the men roaring and baying in voices loud enough to echo across the walls and all throughout the building. Their victory was complete.

Rumors of the rebel victory spread like wildfire. A terrifying devil saved the town of Muret and took the fortress of the Provincial Governor. As the captive hostages were returned to their families, those doubtful rumors became exhilarating truths. But the hostages carried a "gift" carefully prepared by Francois. It was a manifesto and captured and inflamed the hearts of it's readers.

News of Francois' victory reached a very important person; Henrietta de Tristain, Queen of the nation that bore her maiden name. It was the day after she'd uncovered a traitor in her court, Richemont, who had been the Minister of Finance as she talked with her remaining ministers and advisers as well as Cardinal Mazarin.

"The people of Albion have decided to rise up against Cromwell, calling themselves the Albion Revolutionary Forces, but..." Henrietta began.

"This demon the rumors talk about, this Semiazas. If it truly exists and has allied with this new faction of rebels, then Brimir no longer blesses Albion." Mazarin commented.

One minister in the room had other concerns "So the peasants summoned a demon, it just goes to show how little those fools know of their place beneath the nobility." his comment garnered a rather severe glare from Henrietta as well as Mazarin and General Gramont

"Minister, need I remind you that it is through the peasants that we of the Nobility even have something to look after." Gramont commented before saying "This Semiazas worries me, the stories say he has singlehandedly killed numerous nobles in combat and is even immune to flame-based triangle-class magic."

"Wha-what?" Henrietta gasped in shock. The idea of an enemy that could withstand a direct hit from magic was frightening, especially since triangle-class magi were not easy to come by. Henrietta herself was a triangle-class water mage only by virtue of being a direct descendent of Brimir himself. To hear that the commander of the new band of rebels could be immune to attack by mages was a terrifying thought and she prayed she would never have to face such a monster.

"Yes, Your Majesty, the stories also say that Semiazas is a fire mage of incredible power, supposedly able to utilize flame-based magics of even greater strength than a square-class spell with ease. They go so far as to say that Semiazas breaths flames and has some kind of control over lightning, enough to make it spark around his form."

The Tristain court was quiet and more than a little nervous after hearing that news. Dealing with a single mage was relatively easy if you had mages of your own, but dealing with a demon who seemed to casually possess that kind of power was a whole new battle, one the Nobles were loathe to face.


	6. Chapter 5

**Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 5**

**Provincial Garrison, Revolution HQ**

It had been several weeks since the battle and news of the revolutionary victory continued to attract more and more recruits. Looking down from the central ramparts of the Keep following a hands-on unarmed and swordsmanship drill, Francois watched as nearly 5,000 men continued with their day to day routine and training. On the western ramparts, Francois could see Brice lead 500 riflemen through their drills. After finding a storeroom filled with muskets within the castle, Francois pressed them into service, taking back two of his 92FSs and a Heckler & Koch G36, the two pistols in holsters on his hips while the rifle was in his hands.

He planned to make Riflemen the standard infantry unit of the army, but with combat knives and swords in case an enemy got too close. While that wasn't possible at the moment, he could still make a mobile strike force out of them. Francois watched with pride as Brice led his musketeers through the drills, taken word for word from the Revolutionary War Drill Manuel written by Inspector General Friedrich Wilhelm von Steuben for the Continental Army at Valley Forge.

Though it was slow business getting untrained farmers to march in formation, they had learned how to march, halt, turn facing, and form column lines within a week, the rest of the time was spent improving and polishing their discipline. On another side, Brynjar was teaching a group of the others unarmed combat alongside the use of explosives, making them the Berserker Corps, a bunch of men nearly impossible to stop due to shutting off the pain receptors through intense rage and bloodlust, enabling the brutes to either beat their opponents senseless with their hands or to blow shit up with any explosives they had on hand.

On one side of the field stood the Mayor of Cahors leading men through combat lessons with lines of wooden stakes drove into the ground to serve as training dummies, which were beat on by new recruits to practice landing their blows. The advanced recruits were paired against each other or taken under Francois' wing, where they were drilled in proper swordsmanship technique. As he watched the melee classes he couldn't help but frown inwardly. Despite his efforts, more than three quarters of his infantry component were using makeshift weapons and wore little to no armour. With the use of the powerful weapons from his world, the armour would quickly become obsolete, but he and the Mayor of Cahors had experimented with the salvaged armors and found them too heavy for the infantry, so the breastplates were removed and given to the infantry. Two blacksmiths worked earnestly to manufacture proper weapons and equipment but there is a huge difference between forging farm tools and weapons of war. Without equipment, Francois knew his army of rabble would always be at a distinct disadvantage against proper and disciplined troops.

An idea suddenly sprung into his mind as he watched Sheffield drill those who had the gift of magic in their blood, regardless of noble or common birth. Watching the love struck sorceress Francois was reminded of his own esoteric powers due to his demonic heritage, and channeling his mana, which this world called willpower, he drew that power out and used it to create long and broadswords as well as breastplates, vambraces, and greaves made from the same steel as his armour. Levitating the equipment, he leapt off the ramparts to the courtyard and began distributing the equipment to the most advanced swordsmen as they could make the most use out of it.

Suddenly, beyond the field, he could feel the life signs of one of the scouts rushing back to the fortress with a sense of urgency. Moving over to the gate he felt Sheffield seemingly teleport to his side as she appeared next to him as the rider skidded to a stop, jumped down and saluted before saying "Commander!"

"What is the meaning of this?"

"Reconquista forces were spotted moving on Westwood!"

"What? Brice!" Francois said as his eyes began to glow.

"Yea Francois?" the sniper asked, feeling the power hidden inside Francois' form bubbling and boiling with the urge to be released and bring forth Semiazas again.

"Prepare the Musketeers, we march to Westwood to secure it against Reconquista, I refuse to allow those nobles the chance to get their hands on orphaned children."

"Understood." Brice said and Francois' massive warhorse, Inferno, trotted over by himself before headbutting his rider, Francois returning the gesture before getting in his saddle.

Not even an hour later, all 500 riflemen rode out and at their head was Francois and Sheffield alongside Brice, who still carried the AW50, having gotten used to the recoil the powerful weapon possessed. He also carried a pair of H&K Mark 23 handguns. The men behind them carried an assortment of various assault or sniper rifles ranging from the AK-74 and Dragunov to the AR15 and M82, muskets if they weren't skilled enough to have been assigned one of Francois' weapons. They also carried pistols with combat knives and longswords.

On the ramparts the Mayor of Cahors watched the cloud of dust and commented "He tries so hard to sound uncaring of others, but he does care, at least about the younger generations. Semiazas must have a child somewhere" then he went back to training the men, a smile on his face.

A week later, Francois stood in the route the Reconquista forces would have to take to reach Westwood. His riflemen were still taking up positions in the woods surrounding the road. Sheffield stood on one side and Brice on the other. As the revolutionaries waited, they saw Francois seemingly take a sniff, then they heard his voice in their minds saying "_Three ranked volley, take aim!_" and the men instantly heeded the order, the front rank going down on their bellies and aiming low, the second rank kneeling down and the third rank stood. This formation allowed the maximum amount of firepower to be thrown with a single volley and a bristling wall of assault and anti-personnel rifles faced the road.

The Reconquista force came to a stop as they beheld a single man in their path, the silver hair, uncaring reddish-gold eyes that held an intense gaze, beautiful face, and black longcoat making his identity painfully obvious as the Albion Revolutionary Forces' Commander-in-Chief. What made them nervous was the two pistols sitting on his hip and the rifle on his back.

The commander of the force was a young-looking man with brown hair, and looking into the eyes of the Revolutionary leader, the young man saw nothing but rising bloodlust and malice, even the air itself seemed to be turning against them as it began feeling heavier and heavier, prompting gasps when they noticed the tall rebel's eyes had slitted and he seemed to be surrounded by an aura that was a demonic purplish-black.

"Forces of Cromwell." Francois began. "I offer you the chance to surrender, do so and no harm will come to you. Refuse, and only the pits of hell await you." he finished, the more prideful, arrogant, and hot-headed nobles becoming enraged as the words sunk in and they failed to notice as he raised one hand to head height. The young commander, however, saw the gesture and immediately began yelling for his men to calm down, to not do anything rash. His words went unheeded as mages pulled their wands from within their clothes.

A loud 'snap' echoed through the woods mere seconds before gunfire ripped through the silent forest. 500 rifles and muskets barked or boomed, the squad leaders finding themselves blown from their saddles by what felt like the strike of a warhammer as holes punched through their chests and exploded in gore from their backs, the others weren't so fortunate. The volley of rifle fire ripped the column to pieces as bullets found their marks and men were thrown from their saddles.

Francois himself got into it as he quickly pulled the G36 forward and to his shoulder, firing quick bursts of gunfire that sent men from the backs of their horses. In less than a minute it was over.

Terrified horses bolted riderless or with the corpses of their riders hanging from the saddle. Francois walked through the bodies of the dead and the dying, blood staining the bottoms of his boots and dying men, seeing the face of their killer, grabbed at his ankles with what little strength they had left at his passing. Francois finally found his destination, the young man who'd led his enemies and tried in vain to keep order. The poor man, no, he was still just a mere boy, Francois could see it in his eyes and see it through the barely sprouting stubble on his chin, looked at the towering figure clad in black and asked. "Wha … Why?"

"You were sent to attack a town with many orphaned children, and even the demons of hell have rules against harming innocent children." Francois answered as his slitted eyes began to glow like miniature suns.

"I … see." the boy said as his eyes rolled into the back of his head and he passed out from his wounds.

Francois knelt down and said "Your soul is still pure, an amazing thing in this world filled with the souls of the damned. I will place you under my protection, youngling." then he stood up, having felt a feminine but strange life-sign in the area as the riflemen came out of hiding, a female figure wearing a cloak nervously alongside them.

Looking at the tan-clad figure, Francois took a smell of the air and distinguished the new arrival's scent, his eyes widening to an almost imperceptible degree as he said softly "A half-elf, here?" Studying the half-elf closer he saw that she was an attractive young woman who wore strange white socks and sandals with a green dress, the dress doing little to hide what had to be the largest breasts he'd ever seen. He actually had trouble believing that the things were real they were so big, and looking over at Sheffield he chuckled inwardly as he saw the look of jealousy she was sending at the young half-elf.

Using his senses on the half-elf, he sensed a powerful force of healing within her, and so, with that in mind he turned and said "Young one, might I ask for your assistance in our endeavors?"

"I … I don't know. I don't want to hurt anyone." came an unsure and nervous reply from the girl.

"You would not have to fight, merely heal the injured and sick of what ails them, making their lives easier to bear." he continued.

"A … healer?"

"Yes. A healer, that is all I ask of you, to join the Albion Revolutionary forces as commander of our medical corps, use the magic I sense within you to help, not to harm." he said and the riflemen smiled warmly at the girl, giving her courage.

"I understand, but …" she began.

"You are worried about the orphaned children." Francois said before he flared his aura, the energy contained within now channeled by Francois inner kindness instead of the intent to slaughter all those who dared to face him. His aura blanketed the field and all of the dying found their life-threatening injuries healed to the extent that they were no longer on death's door.

The girl nodded and Francois gave one of his rare true smiles as he said "They are why I do this, I fight so they can grow up healthy, safe, and happy."

He stood there and gained an expression of realization before saying "My apologies, I forgot proper etiquette. My name is Francois Laurent, and you?"

The girl looked up and raised her hands, pulling her hood back as she said "I am Tiffania. Tiffania Westwood." her action exposed her face, long blond hair, blue eyes, and pointed ears. Her ears shocked the riflemen as one of them said "An elf, in Albion?!"

"Yes. My mother, an Elf, was secretly the wife of the Archduke of Albion." Tiffania nervously answered them, not expecting them to begin to cheer while saying that the Royal Family lived on. Francois, sensing her nervous fear, did a mind read on her and the instant he saw what she and the orphans have gone through, his fists clenched and his power slammed down like the wrath of an angry God, making the entire area from horizon to horizon turn a demonic purple from his aura and blotting out the sun.

After his rage grew past a certain level, he spun and slammed his right fist into the ground with a roar, causing an incredibly violent earthquake that cracked and cratered the ground around him while ripping a tunneling gash into the ground towards Londinium. The riflemen, Sheffield, and Tiffania had seen his true form super-imposed over his human form, the massive size and resulting damage to the ground causing an 'eep' of fright to erupt from Tiffania's throat, and even Sheffield had trouble keeping herself standing, though her trouble was more due to arousal than the tremors running through the ground.

Francois knelt there with his fist embedded in the ground and his chest heaving from the release of rage. By the creator he hasn't been that enraged in decades, the damned scent in this world was making his negative emotions harder and harder to suppress and control, making it more and more difficult to maintain his self-control.

Standing up he dusted himself off and straightened his coat before saying "Tie up the prisoners and prepare to move out." then he turned to Tiffania and said "We can bring the orphans with us, if you like." getting a smile from the young woman.


	7. Chapter 6

**Vivra la R****é****sistance**

**Chapter 6**

**Road leading to/from Westwood**

Francois and his men were now mounted back up, a trail of wagons housing the war prisoners and orphaned children. To the amusement of Francois' men, more than a couple of the children were now astride the massive warhorse ridden by Francois. One child was riding on his shoulders while another was in front of him and a third behind him in Inferno's saddle as the massive Hell Stallion traveled. On a nearby horse sat Tiffania and a new arrival named Matilda, who was a childhood friend of Tiffania's while a man, who called himself Wardes, rode gingerly due to gunshot wounds.

**Flashback**

When the revolutionaries had arrived at the village of Westwood to acquire wagons to transport the prisoners, they'd found the sheer number of children orphaned by the fighting to be staggering and the children themselves struggling just to have the basic necessities such as food and clothing. It was Cahors and Murat all over again and inflamed Francois' rage to such an extent that he reverted to his true form unintentionally.

While they were in town the local lord, a corrupted noble with a fetish for underage girls, had felt the incredible killing intent and rushed out to defend his 'prizes'. The caused Semiazas to kill him where he stood for the sins he'd committed against the children and young women of the town, he'd even seen where the man had thought to force himself on Tiffania at one point only for Matilda to intervene and drive the 'man' away before he could act on the desire.

Going to the local stables, he forgot to return to his human form as the children crowded around him, seemingly unafraid of the massive devil who stood over ten feet in height when his horns were accounted into the measurement and over twelve when his wings are taken into account. Entering the stable he had found the master and bought the wagons outright, handing the man 15 gold doubloons each for them.

After getting the prisoners squared away in their wagons and the children had clamored into the other wagons, Semiazas had found himself under an extremely entertaining attack as a young boy had leapt up and was now hanging from his tail as was a second boy, a young girl giving him the infamous puppy dog eyes as well. It had surprised everyone that the children of the village had taken to the massive demon so easily.

He'd eventually ended it all by swinging his tail and sending one of the boys flying up onto his shoulders, the boy's awed expression from seeing the world from the shoulders of the Black-winged Devil had gotten giggles from Sheffield and Tiffania while Inferno settled it for the other two by sliding his head between their legs and picking them up onto his back. The girl was picked up first and the boy second, so that she sat with Semiazas' massive form protecting her from harm after the massive demon had mounted up.

After leaving the village itself they'd traveled deep into the woods, only to find a cottage sitting all on it's lonesome. Arriving at the cottage Tiffania had immediately gone inside to pack up her things only to find that she wasn't alone. Her surprised cry had caused Semiazas to seemingly vanish from his saddle and charge into the cottage. On his arrival he found Tiffania hugging a verdette and babbling happily, referring to the woman as Matilda. Semiazas' instinctual mind-read informing him that Matilda was a childhood friend who's father had been a Viceroy serving the Archduke, but now she was a fallen noble who'd been forced to undertake mercenary work and steal just to provide for herself and Tiffania.

On the bed in the room was a man with long hair and had bandages covering his form from view. Going over to the bed after removing his passenger, Semiazas had examined the wounds and found them to be gunshot wounds that were either 7.7 or 20mm wide, leading him to believe that the man had somehow gotten chewed up by a fighter plane.

Examining the removed bullets and the man's memories he found that they were rounds fired by the Type 97 machine gun and Type 99 cannon mounted on the Mitsubishi Navy Type 0 Carrier Fighter, also known as the A6M Zero. The pilot of the Zero in question was a young man that the injured mage knight, Wardes, knew as Hiraga Saito and was accompanied by a void mage, Louise Francois la Blanc de la Vallière, who was a citizen and noble from Tristain referred to as 'Louise the Zero' for her terrible proficiency with any form of magic save that of the Void element.

The presence of the Zero, both the plane and the pinkette, had made Francois pause in thought before deciding that he would make use of Sheffield's ability to go in and out of Reconquista's fortresses and locate the two 'Zeroes'.

His introspection on finding the plane and the void sorceress had been killed instantly when he heard the words "Of course I'm coming with you, I can't leave you unprotected Tiffa." come from Matilda's lips, and further still when Wardes, despite his injuries, said that he wouldn't leave Matilda's side, thus forcing Francois to take them both along, not that he minded since the more well-trained and disciplined officers he could muster the faster he could whip his revolutionaries into the proper shape for warfare. Semiazas had then used his magic to heal Wardes well enough to ride a horse without hurting himself further before taking his new comrade back and leaving the inside of the cottage after introducing himself and transforming back to his human form.

**Flashback End**

The group had been traveling the whole rest of the day; 500 rifleman and five mages leading prisoners of war and orphaned children. And feeling the life signs of the three children, he noticed the two in the saddle were sound asleep while the one on his shoulders was still looking around at everything. As he rode Tiffania's horse came alongside him and Matilda asked "Sir Laurent, might I have a word with you?"

"Of course, what it is you wish to know?" he answered and the entire column began listening in quite closely.

"You said that you are the Devil of the black wings, but where did you come from?" came her question.

"Which definition do you mean? My place of birth or the place I call home?"

"Your place of birth."

"I was born in the Seventh circle of Hell to two great demonic bloodlines."

"So you are a nobleman then?" she asked and the riflemen really listened closely.

"No, I lost my noble station a mere 48 hours after my birth when my father exiled and banished me to an Earth far different from this one. In that way I am considered a fallen noble." he answered and the riflemen, Brice included, gasped in surprise.

"So you are like me then?" Matilda asked him.

"In a sense, lady Sachsen-Gotha. My exile was due to the fact that my birth father felt I was too weak considering the two bloodlines I am derived from."

"I don't understand." Tiffania said as she looked at them in confusion. "How can a father banish his own flesh and blood for being too weak?"

"Hell is unlike the Mortal Realms, Tiffania, in the Nine Hells it is survival of the fittest while the weak are either killed or pushed aside and enslaved, a much more extreme version of what this world's society is based upon; the nobility forcing their will on the peasantry." Francois explained.

"Nine Hells?" came Brice's question.

"Yes, think of Hell as a massive nation in the shape of a circle, with nine 'provinces' in the shape of concentric circles, all save for the center most point, which makes the ninth and final ring. Each 'ring' serves as a place of eternal torment and punishment for those who died without seeking forgiveness for their sins, the most wicked of those sins being the determining factor of which ring the deceased are sent into, and the rings themselves are split into as many as ten districts. The closer to the center one gets the more damning the sins involved." he explained.

"That's insane!"

"That is the truth of the matter." Francois said before using his magic to create a cup filled with water. "Hell is a place of such stifling heat and fire in the outer eight rings that this little cup of water, something we here in the mortal realms take full advantage of, is worth more than all the Gold in the Earth when one is in the Nine Hells." he explained before raising the cup over his head and giving it to the boy riding there, who guzzled the cup of water without hesitation.

"What are the reasons for the Hells and why were you born in the seventh one?" Sheffield asked, though she gave Matilda a quick glare, having seen the looks of lust and attraction the verdette Triangle class Earth mage was sending Francois' way.

"The First Circle is Limbo, for those who were virtuous but did not accept Christ, the Son of God."

"Are you referring to Brimir when you say that?" Wardes asked painfully and Francois' eyes slitted for a mere moment before he growled "That false prophet is frozen to his chin in the second portion of the Ninth Circle. Do not confuse a false idol for the True Lord of All Creation, the being that is, without a doubt, the Alpha and the Omega, as everything began with him, so too shall it end."

Wardes subconsciously shied away from the immense killing intent Francois was giving off before returning to his place in formation and apologizing for the mistake. Francois merely nodded in acceptance before returning to his explanations.

"The Second ring is for those who are overcome by lust, allowing their appetites to sway their reason. A violent storm blows there, blowing the souls trapped there back and forth without rest, to symbolize the power lust has to blow one about without need nor aim."

"The Third ring is for those lost to gluttony, who are forced to lie in a vile slush created from a foul, ceaseless, and icy rain. The slush is representative of the overindulgence in more than just food and drink, but other addictions as well."

"The fourth circle is Greed, and houses those who have lost themselves to the desire for material goods became far more than what is necessary for living. The avaricious and miserly, who hoarded material possessions, and the prodigals, who squandered them, are punished equally there by being forced to joust against one another, using great weights as weapons to push with their chests."

"The Fifth circle is anger, where those who have lost their way due to wrath are punished amidst the swampy waters. They fight on the surface while the sullen gurgle helplessly below, drawn into a black sulkiness where they are unable to find joy in either God, man, or the universe."

"From there one enters the city of Dis, where the lower districts of Hell are housed, the city itself surrounded by the marsh. The outermost district is the Sixth ring, dealing with Heresy. In this ring those who formally deny or doubt of a core doctrine of the faith are encased in flaming tombs. I have found that most churches in the mortal realm I call home have lost their way, and thus became heretical despite their belief in the contrary."

"Now we come to my birthplace, the Seventh Circle of Hell. The seventh circle is repugnantly foul smelling and houses those guilty of violence. This is the first Ring to be divided into separate smaller rings, and the first deals with those who were violent against people and property. Their punishment is immersion in a lake of boiling blood and fire, the deeper their immersion, the more wicked their behavior in life. Should they try to emerge more than they should, they are shot with arrows, forcing them back down to where they belong. My birth father was born here.

The middle ring is for suicides and violence against the means of sustaining life. Suicides are transformed into thorny bushes while the profligates, those who destroyed money and property, are chased and mauled by dogs. The destruction rout upon the bushes by the profligates flight and punishment is further agony for the suicides, who cannot get out of the way.

The innermost ring of the Seventh Circle is for Blasphemers, Sodomites, and usurers. This ring is a desert of flaming sand while flakes of fire rain down upon sinners. My mother and I were both born here. As a Spiked Beast, a demonic bounty hunter, my mother's immense power enabled her to keep the lesser demons in charge of this ring under control when she was not occupied elsewhere by hunting down those who'd stained their souls black, and her duties would have become mine as well had I grown up there."

"The eighth circle is the prison for those who have committed knowing fraud and treachery. This is by far the most divided of the nine primary circles as it is comprised of ten ditches with bridges to enable one to cross over them. This circle punishes the Panderers, Seducers, Flatterers, those who committed simony, false prophets, hypocrites, thieves, fraudulent advisers, evil councilors, sowers of discord, and falsifiers. The punishments for these sinners is widely varied but can be brutally and incredibly violent, so I will not go into details as there are children present."

"The ninth circle is the place of punishment for traitors and is a massive lake of ice that is divided into four sections not counting the very center itself. The four sections punish those who have betrayed special relationships of some kind, the worse the betrayal the further embedded into the ice a soul becomes. The first and second areas embed the soul up to their chins and punish those who betray their family and communal ties. The third section is for those who betray their guests and are embedded up to their faces as they lay on the backs. The fourth section is for those who betray their lords and benefactors, and they are encased completely in ice, unable to move or speak whatsoever." he finished.

"You must forgive me for before. I was mistaken when I said Brimir is in the second section of the Ninth Hell. He is, in fact, imprisoned in the fourth for betraying his entire race through the division of peasant and nobles via what he taught others of magic as well as sins I am currently unknowing of but can still sense." Francois said as he pulled off to the side of the road before directing his men to make camp for the night.

Helping the three children down, he created sleeping bags for them and placed them inside, amused by the fact that the one on his shoulders had fallen asleep even through his explanation of Hell. After everything was set up he called everyone back and said "I left something out of my description of Hell, what lies in it's direct center."

"What lies in the very center of Hell?" Brice asked and the others looked on.

"The Great Deceiver, Satan, formerly known as Lucifer the Lightbringer. Satan betrayed God, leading a full third of Heaven's legions in rebellion only to be defeated and imprisoned in Hell, encased up to his waist in ice. Satan's attempts at escape are defeated by his own wing flaps, the frosty air produced by them doing nothing more than reinforcing the ice that imprisons him."

"And demons can pass onto Earth at will?" Tiffania asked nervously, terrified of the possibility that there were more creatures as powerful as Francois and that they could attack her home at any time.

"While demons are able to pass through the gates seemingly at will, very few of the truly powerful Greater Demons can be convinced to leave, more concerned with the war to end all wars. Although, what I described, aside from God's importance, the part about water being more valuable than gold and the parts involving my birth parents, is an interpretation of what Hell is like from a poem written by a man named Dante and is one third of his Divine Comedy." Francois responded in order to comfort the scared girl.


End file.
